


Sunlight in Her Hair

by liketreesinnovember



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Hand Job, Masturbation, Multi, Pegging, Threesome - F/F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14984036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketreesinnovember/pseuds/liketreesinnovember
Summary: Tyrion is in love with his queen and his wife. Neither is safe, of course. It is rather like the feeling of being slowly drawn and quartered, but that uncertainty is at least familiar.





	Sunlight in Her Hair

Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, Queen of FIre and Blood, might be made of ice as she stands on the dais in front of the iron throne, looking down with frost in her violet eyes. Her long silver braid glistens in the sunlight filtering into the throne room from the stained glass windows. On the steps below her stands a tall woman with fiery red hair, the fur clad Wardeness of the North, and Tyrion Lannister’s one-time child bride, Sansa Stark. They were an odd pair, these two women, the one steadfast and the other bristling, their heads almost even despite the fact that Daenerys stands two steps higher.

Despite the chill of winter come, Tyrion feels suddenly hot up on the dais, his collar oppressively tight. He’s shorter than both of them despite the fact that he stands level with Daenerys on the dais, slightly to her right, and it is far from the first time in his life that he is uncomfortably aware of that fact.

Sansa occasionally glances towards him as she speaks to the queen. They will exchange words later, when it is decided that their marriage should remain intact, as assurance that the North remain loyal to the throne. It feels uncomfortably like he is to once again play the role of her jailer, only this time in service to a different monarch. But Daenerys is good, and just, and he believes that the world that she builds will be a better one, so he accepts his duty with the resignation of one who has seen too much of the world. Like Daenerys, he is weary of war, and weary of conquest. He wants only peace, and a spring that may never come.

There is a feast, and a bedding ceremony, and he gets through it with as much pride as a dwarf with half a nose can muster. Daenerys leads the women in undressing him, giving him a small, coy smile that is somehow obscene, and makes him recall nights crossing the Narrow Sea when she would summon him to her cabin. 

The first time, she had been wearing her white lion skin, and not a stitch else. The irony had not been lost on him, as he himself had felt at times as if she had skinned him alive, turned him inside out. The queen could do that to a man, and why she had chosen him had been a constant mystery.

“You are my friend,” she had said to him, often. It was both enough and not enough, somehow.

Rumors of the queen’s perverse tastes fly far enough to reach his ears, although the ones that contain  _ him _ are only told when the teller thinks he isn’t within hearing.

The consummation of his marriage is probably less terrible than it might have been those years ago in Maegor’s Holdfast. Sansa is a woman grown and knows much and more of men, he realizes. It matters not that she is no maid, as he is hardly a handsome prince. Their joining is one of duty, and when he is finished he turns away from her and lies awake, listening to the sound of her breathing.

This becomes their nightly ritual. 

Once, in the darkness, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Tyrion.”

He shrugs her off and pretends to sleep. He wonders, in the silence that follows, if she does the same.

In a few weeks they will leave King’s Landing for Winterfell. Tyrion spends most of his days apart from his wife, who sews and sings and hawks with other of the ladies in Daenerys’ court. Sometimes the queen is with them, laughing like a maid and speaking with each woman in turn.

Evenings he spends with the queen discussing how to heal their fractured realm, rebuilding and rethinking and rehashing. They never talk of a shared berth at sea and a musty skin. Sometimes she asks him about his wife and he makes some joke which he makes a show of quickly forgetting, a wave of his arm as if to dismiss such matters from his mind. He reaches once again for the wine, and pours a little too quickly, spilling the red liquid over the rim of his cup.

It is later that he sees his wife and his queen walking in the garden together. They are some distance away and do not notice him, sitting beneath a tree with a book in his lap. He hears Sansa’s high pitched laughter, like bells pealing from far off.

He learns of Sansa’s private audiences with the queen through the talk of others.

Things between Tyrion and Sansa are tense, but not hostile, and in the past weeks they have settled into a kind of quiet routine. One night, over supper, Tyrion spoils the dance by asking his wife what it is she does with the queen during the day.

“Oh,” Sansa says, surprised, “she is teaching me how to braid the Dothraki way. I am teaching her how to play the high harp.”

Tyrion stares at his wife, examining the plaits in her hair, seeing them somehow for the first time. “I did not know that you played the high harp,” he remarks.

The next time he is called to audience with Daenerys, he stops short a moment after entering the room, surprised to see Sansa herself there, perched on a seat beside a beautifully carved wooden harp that he has never seen before. His wife is dressed in a simple cream-colored gown and her hair has been pinned atop her head with pearl-encrusted gold combs. The instrument itself is curved like a woman and Sansa’s fingers caress its strings with such delicacy that Tyrion cannot stop staring. The sound produced is as if he were hearing music for the first time in his life.  _ I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. _

Tyrion and Daenerys drink and talk while his wife plays, although Tyrion finds himself distracted from the usual topics, and often the queen has to repeat herself. Tyrion feels uncomfortably like the slush that crusts around the soles of one’s boots when snow melts under the sun’s fire.

Rumors of dead men walking above the Neck make travel impossible. Tyrion and Sansa make idle conversation over the ever dwindling supper table and dance around the topic of their missed family. Sometimes they talk of politics, of the business of planning the rebuilding of the city and how to handle those lords still unwilling to accept the queen's terms. He finds that Sansa is far from ignorant in such matters, and plans to present some of her ideas to the queen himself.

Sometimes, in the dark, it becomes easy to forget that they did not choose this. One night when the chill has settled inside his aching bones worse than usual, her hands find him in the dark and he does not flinch away.

The truth is that he is in love with his queen and his wife. Neither is safe, of course. It is rather like the feeling of being slowly drawn and quartered, but that uncertainty is at least familiar.

Some nights he does not see his wife until well past supper has ended.

On one such occasion, he is able to keep track of the late hour only by the burning of the candle beside him as he pours over an old familiar book, when he gets the summons to the queen’s chambers.

He is surprised when he enters her solar and she is not there to meet him. There is no decanter of wine on the table, no signs of their usual meeting. The harp and seat had not returned since that one particular evening, but he finds himself looking for it nonetheless. Finding none of these things, he moves past the solar to her bed chamber, the way he might have once, although he has not received that particular summons since they had landed on Westerosi soil.

When he enters the bedchamber, he finds Daenerys sprawled out on the bed like a cat, naked but for the lion skin that drapes across her form. Amongst the furs on the bed something else moves, and Tyrion’s eyes catch on a shock of brilliant red hair, a flash of snow-white flesh.

Tyrion turns to go, but then hears his queen’s voice. “Stay.”

That first night, he is merely permitted to watch. Afterwards, Daenerys watches him attend to himself. Sansa has the grace to blush, somehow managing to be demure even while in the dragon queen’s bed.

The next night, he is not allowed to touch himself until he has pleasured them both with mouth and tongue. Daenerys, in particular, takes satisfaction in watching him.

One night, after the queen has taken her pleasure and Sansa lies prettily in the bed, she takes him in hand herself, ordering him onto his back on the bed. She has not put hands on him since they came to King's Landing, and her soft caresses have an effect on him almost greater than the hand that encircles his cock. Tyrion lets his eyes close and a moan escapes his lips as his seed spills out hot over Daenerys’ hand and his thighs.

Sansa begins to join them in their nightly discussions, and is given a seat on Daenerys' small council as well. She becomes known as one of the city's benefactors, a gentle lady with hair like fire who inspires singers and poets even in the midst of winter. 

She surprises him even more one evening when she presents him with a gift inside a wooden box, a smooth glass cock.

"I suppose you expect me to wear a gown," Tyrion snorts.

"Why, husband," Sansa says airily, as if she were speaking of her stitches, her hand entwined with the queen's. "I do not expect that you will be wearing anything."

During the day, Tyrion and his wife are known to share public smiles and caresses. They say that Lady Sansa has developed a taste for her Imp husband, and all manner of lude remarks are made that are not meant to reach his ears, but the hand's reach is wide and the reports that do reach him are full of scandal that would make a whore blush. Not one of them is close to the truth, however.

They say the dragon queen holds the souls of men in thrall, that the giving of her body is part of some blood magic ritual. Offal and more offal, Tyrion knows, but his soul is in thrall nonetheless, to two women. Perhaps on the morrow they will all perish, and what little is left of him will only be a memory, too small and insignificant to even be fit for a song. But the shadow that they cast, the three of them together, may be enough to hold back the winter a little while longer.


End file.
